


give me a dragon

by minnow_writes



Category: Original Work
Genre: 2nd Person, F/F, she/they reader, switch dynamics, the inherent homoeroticism of being captured by enemy forces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28519533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minnow_writes/pseuds/minnow_writes
Summary: A high-ranking general is captured by enemy forces, and is brought to the enemy queen. What will she demand of them?
Kudos: 20





	give me a dragon

**Author's Note:**

> **Content tags:** actual dick, bondage, orgasm denial, teasing

You didn’t mean to get captured. That’s a stupid statement; no one _intends_ to be caught. Not a high-ranking, loyal general of the king’s army, anyway – maybe if you were a young and lonely princess, this would be a different story. No, you were foolish. Years of rigorous training and _you_ somehow managed to piss it all away. Maybe it wasn’t your fault. Maybe there was a mole in your battalion, maybe an enemy scout intercepted some communication – maybe it doesn’t matter. You should have been prepared for the worst to happen.

The queen’s guards dig their gloves into your skin, hauling you by each arm and clearly not waiting for you to keep up. You pinch back a grimace. You sleep with a knife under your pillow, but after the queen’s soldiers ambushed your camp in the middle of the night, after her fucking impeccable archers silently dismantled the men on watch one by one with surgical precision, you don’t know what else there is to do to prevent such a crippling defeat.

 _It’s interesting_ , you think as the guards drag you into the throne room and toss you at her feet, _that she didn’t kill a single one of your men._

She’s been waiting for you. You can tell by the look on her face this is something of a delicious encounter for her, finally gaining the upper hand in this war. A sweet satisfaction. The hunger that glimmers in her eyes is enough of an indication that she has every intention to make you remember your failure.

“Well, well.” A slow, devilish smirk slides along her lips. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

You don’t give her the pleasure of a reply. Glee dances in her eyes.

“Too tired to hiss and spit?”

You finally notice that while she isn’t tall, her presence is enough to make her tower above you. The guards hovering so close by tells you to stay on the ground – you grit your teeth at the humiliation of the situation – and look up at her, steely-eyed. She’s a few feet away, hands clasped behind her back, and her regal white dress pools at her feet on the floor. The sheer amount her gold – her multiple necklaces, her long earrings, her bands on her upper arm – glint in the sun and gleam against her honey-brown hair. In this light she’s almost otherworldly, except you know that an angel would never delight in someone else’s defeat.

And so, you still must play by her rules. “What do you want from me?” you ask, not bothering to mask your exasperation with the situation.

Her gaze falls on you.

It runs through you like a sword. Your back stiffens, and you feel like if you take a breath you’ll dig the blade deeper and bleed out right there. You had heard about her from the other generals, how she was deceptively youthful but shrewd, direct and cold. Cruel, even.

And you remind yourself, as you struggle to hold her gaze, as she approaches you slowly, that you found it interesting that she killed not a single one of your men.

So perhaps, just perhaps, she would spare you.

“Give me a dragon.”

“Never.”

It comes out of your mouth on instinct. Can you blame yourself? The king’s stableman (of all people) had figured out a way to tame them decades ago, and it has remained a confidential secret since then. They’re incredibly slow to raise, but even one among the ranks could hold back an army twice as large as their own. You could give her _anything_ but that.

She doesn’t seem angry. You figure she would expect that response – what loyal general would give up something like that on the first try?

She nods to the guard on your right. Before you can turn your head, his heavy steel boot slams into your back – _fuck_ – your waist yields, and your head falls forward. Your pride recoils and tightens around your chest like a python, threatening to leap out of your throat and strike her heel.

“Again,” she says evenly, “give me a dragon.”

You swore an oath to your kingdom first, and to your king second. You suck in a steadying breath, even though the heel of the guard’s boot gnaws into your spine. “No.”

The queen pauses again, looking down at your pathetic, unarmored self, and nods to her guard again. The all-too-familiar scraping of a blade against a sheathe echoes in the throne room, and the cold of the metal bites against your throat. He tilts it upward and forces you to look at her.

She’s ethereal.

For some reason you think the resentment barreling through your veins is distorting your senses – she’s beautiful and wicked and you want nothing more than to break this man’s leg and show her what _fucking_ for, even though her power makes you nervous. You’ll never admit to that. You want to show her you’re _not_ too tired to hiss and spit, even though you told yourself you’d play by her rules – _fuck_ playing by her rules –

“I’ll ask only once more. Give me a dragon.”

You swore an oath to your kingdom first, and to your king second. You huff, exhausted from your spinning thoughts. Even though you’re at sword-point, you hardly feel it when she looks at you, because _she_ is the true threat in the room, wielding white and gold and the flashing of her eyes and teeth.

“You will not have a dragon.”

Hers guard’s blade shifts the slightest bit in anticipation of his queen’s command. But she keeps staring, unresponsive at your third denial – and now you’regetting nervous – the blade begins to bite into your skin –

“Release her,” she commands.

The guard seems surprised, but obeys, and finally you are able to sit up again. You think of the things that could come next. There are all the other ways she might use you to get the upper hand if she can’t have a dragon, but why would she, a _queen_ , with all of her power, be stopped by your word alone?

Suddenly she’s kneeling on the floor in front of you, her linen light spilling behind her. You freeze. The faint freckles that are strewn along her cheeks, the strong authority of her nose, the shimmer of her pink lips – these things are made known before you. You dare not move for fear she will take it as a victory.

Why are you, a seasoned general who has seen gore and death, so shaken by a single unarmed woman?

Her bracelets jingle softly against each other as she carefully grips you by your chin. This time you don’t breathe, because she’s trapped the air in between her fingers. “Fine,” she whispers, but her icy eyes glint with that same satisfied gleam. “I suppose I’ll have to torture it out of you.”

* * *

The first time the guards pull you out of your cell, they take you to the baths. This strikes you as odd – you would never expect a captor to allow such a luxury to a prisoner, especially before torture. As you pour buckets of warm water over yourself and soothe the angry marks left by the guards’ hands and feet, you think she might be especially evil, not allowing you to enjoy the relief of a bath when you know excruciating pain is soon to follow. But – you rinse your face – you remind yourself that she killed not a single one of your men.

This unusual mercy nags you. Her archers, now some of the best in the land since they had been fighting against dragons for so long, did not fell a single arrow on your soldiers. No, they did something incredibly difficult – after deciphering your watchmen’s patterns for months, they strung pouches of sleeping powder in the trees and silently struck them open one by one, knocking your men unconscious. Before you knew it, your camp was overwhelmed, and there was no use fighting. You would never force your men to risk their lives against a battle already lost – especially since not a drop of blood was spilled.

And yet, with the same impeccable precision that she used to dismantle your battalion without bloodshed, she plans to cut you open until you give her what she wants, even though she has already spared you twice.

The water is getting cold now, and this loop of thoughts vexes you. You rise from the bath and shiver, droplets _plinking_ into the basin. The only thing you can do is wait, and hope you can figure out a way to sway her in your favor.

* * *

The second time the guards pull you out of your cell is only an hour or so after your bath. They do not, however, manhandle you like last time, and instead press you toward two looming, ornate wooden double-doors. When they stop to form a barricade behind you, you take the hint and take a deep breath. You, a seasoned general, have seen much worse than this, and for the sake of the oath you swore you will survive through this one way or another.

 _Though_ , you think as the door heaves open with a groan, _that this is an oddly ornate torture chamber._

She’s been waiting for you.

This is not a torture chamber, you realize quickly, but her bedroom, lavish with heavy curtains and plush carpet and curling, ornate décor. It is evening, and the curtains are drawn shut, but the room is well-lit with candles and torches. Your eyes sweep the area for any signs of equipment, but you come up empty, save for the boxes on her night-tables, which for all you know could be for jewelry. What could all of this be for? Why are you here? Does she do this to all of her prisoners – torture them herself in her own chambers for sadistic delight?

She is wearing the same outfit as she was earlier. You try to figure out what has changed – the door falls shut with a finite _slam_ behind you, and you whip your head around.

There are no guards.

“So you’ve brought me here,” you say as you turn your head back to her, unnervingly stoic but knowing, _knowing_ – “you’ve allowed me a bath for why? So that my flesh is more tender for your torture?”

She tilts her chin up slightly, peering at you through her lashes. “Yes,” is all she replies, and it baffles you – the guards’ footsteps echo down the corridor, and you want to scream, none of this makes _sense_.

“And yet you order your guards to leave a highly trained general unsupervised with their queen?”

A chuckle bubbles from her chest. “It took my captain of the guard much convincing.” She looks you up and down once, as if she’s sizing you up. “But I think I can handle you.”

This completely disarms you. You’re suddenly aware of yourself – donned in a simple white shirt and brown trousers. You don’t have a weapon, but you know that you could overwhelm her in an instant, hell, right now if you wanted to, but that one statement freezes you in place. She’s so confident of her assertion, you can’t tell if she’s bluffing or if she has something much worse up her sleeve. Would she risk her life on a bluff?

Or is this a trap?

She nods to you once, gesturing to a spot directly in front of her. “Come here.”

You decide to play this out, for the sake of your safety. You stride forward until you reach the spot – far enough away to react, but close enough to feel the tension in the air – and hold her gaze. She doesn’t run you through like earlier, but part of you wishes she were. Instead, she regards you carefully, her eyes picking their way around your face, your neck, your chest.

“I _will_ torture you, General,” she murmurs, and the intent of her words spreads across your chest. You stifle your surprise. “Do not be mistaken. But I will offer you an option. Endure torture and I will release you, on my word. But if you cave in…” she pinches your chin between her fingers, catching your breath once again between them, “You _will_ give me a dragon.”

“And if I don’t want to be tortured?” You meant it to be mocking, but it comes out breathy because it feels like she’s holding you in the palm of her hand.

She flashes her teeth. “You are more than welcome to say no. At any point. But I have a feeling,” she shifts her hand and cups your jaw, gives it a testing squeeze, “that won’t happen.”

You have to monitor your breathing, now, because surely she can feel all of this swelling in your chest – she hasn’t broken eye contact with you, and every one of your military instincts is screaming that this is a trap, but when you look past her smug self-confidence, you find her word is true. “And,” you say, “if I say no right now?”

“I will not release you to your king,” she replies, “but you would be free to leave this room, and I would still be without a dragon.” She hums, and her fingers brush against your throat as she releases your jaw. “I will not hurt you, General. This I can promise.”

“You spared my men.”

She nods.

“What’s stopping me, then, from saying no right now and walking out that door?”

A smirk creeps across her lips. “Your curiosity.”

She’s right. This entire web that she’s woven makes no sense, but part of you just wants to say yes to see how any angle of this situation could possibly benefit her. But there’s something missing. “My curiosity alone is a weak basis for me to risk my post and my country.”

A little bit of pleasure glints in her eyes, almost as if she’s glad you’re putting the pieces together. “You swore an oath to your kingdom, yes? But what of your king?”

You despise him. You swore an oath to your kingdom, because you want to do right by her people, but when her ruler is a tyrant you find your hands tied. Things have changed so much since you first joined as a knight, and secretly you have always wanted to change something, _something_ – but you swore an oath, and disobedience would result in not only your dismissal, but your shame.

“To my kingdom first,” you clarify, “and to my king second.” She is offering you not one option, but three.

Leave now, but be forever a bargaining chip, trapped as prisoner for ransom.

Stay, and risk the secret of your kingdom’s security. Revealing this secret would certainly result in your dishonorable discharge – exile at best. You would not be beholden to the king, but you would no longer serve your kingdom’s people.

And finally: stay, endure, and return to your post, to your king, to your country.

“So I suppose, then, you must decide,” she whispers – when did she get so dangerously close to you? – “who do you really wish to be loyal to?”

It clicks. You look at her a little wide-eyed, realizing with a little bit of nervousness in your heart that she is not the queen you thought her to be – _this_ is who you have wanted to serve: someone fit to rule but not with an iron fist, someone sharp but willing to spare the lives of an enemy she has never met. If you stay and cave to whatever this _torture_ is (this torture that will not make you bleed, she claims), she gets her dragon, she wins her war – and you are a free entity, no longer bound to a man with a wicked heart.

And if you stay and emerge victorious – well, she will have proven her trustworthiness regardless, and you can decide what you want to do from there.

And so you make a choice.

“My curiosity has gotten the best of me, Your Majesty.” Her eyebrows pop up a bit in surprise at your use of her title. “Your terms are…” you choose your words carefully, “…untraditional, but seem honest.” You eye her a bit, your confidence propelling back to the forefront at the prospect of a new challenge. This is where you have always thrived. “I hope I am not wrong to trust you.”

She flashes you a stern, sincere look. “You aren’t, General.”

Something in that break of character comforts you, and you think, almost laughing to yourself, that you never in a hundred millennia would think you would feel safe in the bedchambers of the enemy. But she isn’t really, is she? The enemy?

“Now,” she says, a glimmer of mischief flickering across her face. “I need to change into something more suitable.” She turns so her back is facing you and gathers her long hair over one shoulder. “Remove my jewelry.”

You blink. There’s a lot of it, and you’re uncertain if you heard her correctly –

“One thing you might want to know during this –” she looks at you over her shoulder and stares right fucking through you, and suddenly you feel like you’re on her throne room floor again, “don’t make me repeat myself.”

_Got it._

You step closer and start with the necklaces – there are five or so – and pick up the first clasp. Suddenly you’re made aware of the expanse of skin that presents itself before you – from the nape of her neck where the softest hairs gather, to the back of her dress. You try to ignore it. As you remove them one by one, reaching your arms around her to grab both ends and place them gingerly on her night-table, her eyes never leave you. Your confidence withers as quickly as it came, and you’re desperate to get it back, so you square your shoulders a little bit more and pretend like you don’t notice the growing heat in your chest. It’s easy, you tell yourself – always have the upper hand, always have control – the warmth stirring in your abdomen isn’t there.

She taps her arm next, laden with bands and bracelets. And one by one, you remove those too – you slide the bracelets off – she’s staring at you – you meet her gaze, and she holds it, before finally looking back down to her arm bands as if to say, _well, get on with it._ And you think as your palm presses against her shoulder so you can pull them off, that you still have control, the heat that radiates from where you’re holding her isn’t spreading like a fire up your arm; you tell yourself this: you’re looking at the jewelry because you’re focused, not because you can hardly bear to meet her eyes, wickedly sharp and commanding with their authority.

But the last band is removed, and she grabs your chin and lifts you to her, and before your chest can seize up she releases you and taps her earlobe twice.

_Fuck._

You walk behind her again and lean in to find the back of the first earring, and this is where you begin to realize _this_ is the torture she had planned all along – she is dangling just out of your reach. Somehow she knew your preferences, but she has not done anything to you – _you_ cultivated a desire for her, back when you were first thrown at her feet. She stood before you, divine, and she tested your pride. She flaunted her power, and she made herself seem untouchable. And what do you do, as a soldier? You conquer – a challenger presents themselves before you, and you rise above it.

And now though you are touching her, she is still untouchable, and though it is wrong – is it wrong? – you don’t want to keep trying to control yourself anymore. _Enough of the façades_. A little fire starts in you and you want to show her a bit what for, thinking that she can dangle out of your reach like this. But you have to play by her rules – _fuck_ playing by her rules –

But you know if you show your desire, you will have given in, and so you suck in a deep breath and push her hair a bit aside, silken in your fingers, and remove the last earring.

“Thank you, General,” she says, and it drives you insane how calm she is when all of this is stirring in your chest. “Now unlace me.”

You don’t know if your fingers are trembling with anger or desire. You just want to _rip this –_

The fire isn’t there. The fire isn’t there.

Unlacing her is excruciatingly slow, and it doesn’t help that with each string a little bit of her upper back is exposed to you. You use all of your willpower to force your hands to stay their task and not splay across it. You swallow, and give a good step backwards once you’re done.

She slips out of the dress, now in just a simple underdress, and turns towards you, assessing your state. She seems neither satisfied nor dissatisfied, and her neutrality towards the situation quite frankly makes you want to say _fuck this_ and leave.

But your pride gets in the way, and so you await her next move.

“That’s better.” She gives a little smile. “Still holding up, General?”

You can’t let her know you’re already losing your mind. “We haven’t started yet?” you tease, but something twists in your belly when her grin widens devilishly.

“Watch what you say, General,” she replies, “for your own sake.” Before you can ask what that might mean, she nods once to you. “Now. Likewise.”

You peer at her. “But I’m not –”

“Did I stutter, General?”

You grit your teeth. You’re not even sure how much you’re supposed to remove, so you start with something easy, and kick off your boots and peel off your socks. A bit of your spitfire sputters up again, and you cross your arms.

She looks you up and down, completely ignoring your little rebellion, and strides toward you with purpose. She firmly grabs your arms and pulls them apart – you roll your eyes –

She slaps you.

It wasn’t hard. It didn’t even hurt. But it makes your chest lock and your neck tighten, and your cheek still tingles with strange delight. Slowly, you turn back to her, praying that she can’t see how much that affected you.

(You’re praying she doesn’t look down, because she’s looking at you like she’s about to kill you and devour you at the same time and the situation is changing _fast._ )

“Rule one is do not make me repeat myself,” she hisses. “Rule two is do _not_ ,” she grabs you by the throat, “act ungrateful.” Her nails dig a little into your neck, and each pinprick is a warning.

Silently, you nod.

She hums her approval, and releases you. She flicks your shirt. “This too.”

You bite back a retort and quickly take off your shirt, tossing it to the side. She cocks her head slightly, eyeing the binds around your chest with curiosity. She looks at you, all of her dark hunger vaporizing in an instant. “And does this,” she respectfully taps it once, “come off too?”

You blink at her sudden sincerity. (You realize that this might be a pattern of hers.) “No, it doesn’t.”

“Perfect.” She splays her hands down your sides, and your body can’t help but twitch, you haven’t been touched in so _long_ , you realize, that there might be a serious chance that you won’t be able to fight whatever you’re meant to endure or resist –

Her fingers find their way to the waistband of your pants.

 _Her._ You’re meant to resist _her._ To endure _her._ You have to steady yourself. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. You can’t bear to look at her now, now that her attention is drawn _there_ –

She drags her nails along your thighs. “What have we here?” _Fuck._ You throb. “And I thought you were holding up so well, General.” She chuckles, low and devious. “Well, I suppose you were right,” her hands linger dangerously close to you, “you are certainly _holding up_.” She grasps your chin. “Look at me.”

_Do not make me repeat myself._

You open your eyes. Is there any point in pretending you have control anymore? Yes, you think, there’s your dignity. And even though she’s making you want to fall on your knees on your own volition, you hold your ground and give her a little breathy smile. “I didn’t lie, did I?”

She runs a thumb across your lower lip. You resist the urge to grab it between your teeth. “It certainly doesn’t look like it.” Her hand trails to the same cheek she hit earlier, then down your neck, then smoothly to your abdomen. She presses it flat there, then digs her nails in.

You quaver. It feels like she’s got hold of you, and if she just shoved even a _bit_ you’d be flung across the room.

“And how do you feel, General, about showing so easily when your goal is to resist?”

“It’s just a natural response. It shows nothing of my…” her fingers have slipped under your waistband at your hip, “…my fortitude.”

“But what are you _thinking_?” She presses her fingers at your hip in, pulling you a little closer. “Surely, that _natural response_ must elicit other things. Tell me, General,” her free hand moves to the inside of your thigh, “when you first saw me, what did you think?”

God. You tilt your head up in frustration. “I –”

“Did I say you could look away?”

Shit. You force yourself to meet her hungry gaze again, and the heat in you coils up tight. Like a python. “I resented you.”

The fingers at your thigh begin to caress there, barely. “Why is that?”

“Because you –” she was going to make you say it, wasn’t she? “– because you forced me to be helpless. And –” You shouldn’t say this. _You shouldn’t fucking say this_. “Because I admired you for it.”

“ _You_ admired _me_ ,” she repeats, as if she already knew. Of course she did. She bites her lip and her eyes flicker down to yours. “No, you admired my power.”

Her hand creeps up higher, and your breath hitches. “Yes,” you admit.

“Power that you want.”

“Yes,” you grit out, forcing your waist to stay still even though everything is cueing you to lean your bulge into her hand.

“Over me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” you answer with an edge of impatience.

“The conqueror doesn’t take well to being conquered, do they?” Her hand slides up but around you, and you slip out a little frustrated groan. Back up, up, up to your sides. “What if I told you, General,” she whispers, pulling in close, “that I would let you? If you just gave in to me, I would give you that power.”

You breathe heavily against her neck, knowing full well you can’t kiss it, and try to put those images out of your mind, to keep your pride intact. You force it all away – grabbing her right now and throwing her on the bed, raking your nails down her sides, digging your teeth into her shoulder – _fuck_ – you harden more you haven’t been with someone in such a long time you want to fuck her you want to fuck her you want

You don’t want this to end. You would be pathetic if you gave in so easily. “I think I can resist that offer, Your Majesty,” you murmur against her neck, “however generous it may be.”

A palm presses at your chest and you drift backwards. She looks undeterred. “We’ll see,” she says, and gestures for you to follow her to the side of the bed. “Those,” she nods to your trousers, “go.”

You slide them off your body, leaving you in only your boxers – and leaving your bulge presenting itself to her. Her unwavering stare grows hungrier. You think you see her lick her lips, but her hands are already wandering close to you, and you don’t have room for much thought at that point except for the fact that you want her to grab you so _badly_.

“General,” she says, looking up from her endeavor and tugging on her underdress, “Remove this.”

Fuck. You pull it over her head, and she adjusts her hair back into place. Her breasts command your attention first, then the curve of her waist, fuck, there’s so much you want to touch, and then her pussy – you wonder how wet she is right now – _fuck_ –

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

“I think something _else_ is already telling you all you need to know,” you point out, unabashedly raking your eyes up and down her body.

She smiles, flashing her teeth at you again, and all you can think is how dangerous she is, and how you want to kiss that dangerous mouth over and over again. “I think you need to clarify for me, General.”

You slide off your boxers.

She considers you for a moment, reaches her hand out like she’s going to touch you, but just drags her fingers barely along your shaft and settles on your hip instead. You groan this time, not giving a single fuck that your resolve is breaking.

“Is that another one of your _‘natural responses’_ too, General?” she teases.

 _Fuck_ her. “Plea–” you swallow your sentence down, and her entire face lights up with devilish delight.

_Please let me touch you. Please touch me. Please let me throw you on the bed and fill you with my cock. God. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck f_

You take an audible breath in. “Yes. It couldn’t be helped.”

“On the contrary,” she muses, “ _I_ think it can,” she pauses, “be helped. On the bed.”

She pushes you down so you’re on your back, then leaves you in her sheets – which feel ungodly expensive – to rummage in a little box on one of her night-tables. So part of you _was_ right, back when you thought she was going to be doing more traditional torture. All she produces from the box is a small length of rope and a vial of what looks like oil.

Silently, she leans over you and positions your arms above your head – not like you’re paying much attention to that anyway, when her breasts are so close to your mouth, you fight every urge in you to throw her hands off of you, to grab her, to take a hard nipple in between your teeth –

She’s laughing at you. You’ve leaned up a bit off the bed, but your arms flex against the rope, now securely fastening you to one of the rails of the headboard. “General,” she whispers, now letting one of her hands roam freely across your stomach, “is there something you want to say to me?”

You fall back into the sheets and screw your eyes shut in frustration. Your cock is throbbing too fucking distractingly, and every spot her hand glides across makes your nerves light up. You’re too fucking _sensitive_ right now. This is a precarious situation.

“No,” you tell her.

“Hmm,” is all she replies, and finds the vial of oil. She looks at you deliberately. “Remember your options, General.”

You nod, and take a deep breath in.

She makes a bit of a show toying with the vial before sliding you another look, and then she’s crawling up to you, laying fully beside you, and all of her skin is against you at once, and you try to take it all in: its smoothness along your side and the little bit of roughness where her pussy connects with you. You want to pull her on top of you. You want to run your hands along her sides, palm over her breasts, cup her neck, kiss her, slide your hands down her back. You want to grab her ass and have her grind on you until _she’s_ the one begging for _you_.

You absentmindedly pull against your bonds. She laughs again, airy but ever so wicked, and she kisses you.

You’re floating. She keeps kissing you, cupping your cheek with her free hand. You never want this to end. After all of that, something as simple as this feels divine – is it because she is? Divine? She’s sweet and sharp, and commands you with her lips with slow, deliberate intent. Somewhere in all of this you’ve left the room, and you’re somewhere else, somewhere else, somewhere else.

“General…” she whispers, and kisses you again, bites your lower lip with those teeth she flashes in the sun. It tingles, and your entire body shudders. She takes a moment to pull back and unscrew the vial, and pours a bit of the oil in her hand, then spreads it well. You watch her with devout fascination, because you think you know what’s coming next, and you don’t think you can bear it – in the most delicious way possible.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” you breathe. Her hand trails down to your cock, but it stops, lingering, and she kisses you again, smiling impishly.

Your hips jerk up in anticipation. _Fuck._ She chuckles into your mouth. “…tell me what you’ve been wanting to do, if you had the power.”

The rope bites into your wrists. You take another deep breath. You’re not sure if you can do this – it’s too humiliating, being tied up while she smugly watches you, taunting you, with your cock exposed and clearly wanting her.

You look at her, eyes glimmering with anticipation.

“I want to know,” she purrs, “since it looks like you might make it out of this after all. Leave me something to think about.”

 _Leave her something to think about._ Your pride steps aside, and you close your eyes. “I want –”

“Look at me,” she commands.

You can hardly bear it. She looks at you so _intently_ , like she’s going to swallow you whole awaiting your next words. Your breathing stutters and you try again. “If I could,” you begin, “I might not decide…” your thoughts are so scrambled from the headiness and haze that muddles your mind. Fuck. You say the first thing that you think of. “It would be hard for me to decide what I want to do first. But you forced me on my knees before you and made me humiliated. And I want revenge for that.”

As soon as you feel your confidence building, she tears it all down.

She touches you.

Her hand, slick with oil, wraps itself around your cock. You groan and instinctively arch into her touch, reveling in the sensation of her warmth around you. But she doesn’t move, just holds it there, and finally you figure out she’s waiting for you to continue.

“I would want revenge…” you struggle, trying to remember where you left off, “I would –” it’s so hard to say what you want to say next when she’s looking at you like that. You feel so small, so very, very small. “I would want to force you on your knees,” you’re not confident at all, you’re breathing this out, barely keeping it together, “I would want to use your mouth –”

She moans, and it sounds fucking godly. You have a new motivation to push through your desperation now, and that’s to get that sound out of her again as many times as you can. She rewards you with a slow stroke, and her thumb gently circles around your tip. It feels so _good_ you can’t stand it. You need more. “I would want to use you and fuck your face for a while, and you’d just have to take it. But I wouldn’t come in your mouth. You don’t deserve it.”

Her tongue runs over her lips, and she rewards you with another stroke, a bit firmer this time. “Then what _do_ I deserve, General?”

You pull at your restraints, and begin thrusting a little up into her hand. She either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. The fact that she’s actually enjoying this, too – that she relishes in teasing you for what feels like hours on end, but can’t get enough of you telling her just how dirtily you’d fuck her makes your breathing get shallower. You want this. You want _her._

“You deserve to be beneath me,” you reply, “you deserve to be bitten and scratched–” she moans again, now stroking you more fervently, and everything is getting hazier – she’s kissing you, but it’s sloppy, and there’s spit on your chin, and somewhere in all this you feel a damp spot where she’s grinding her pussy against you – “If I could, I’d pin you down and I’d fuck you so slowly until you were begging, and only when I felt like it would I give you what you wanted and come inside of you–”

She kisses you _hard_ and moans into your mouth, pumps her hand up and down your cock faster, and you realize too suddenly you’re close.

You’re really fucking close.

“I’m gonna come,” you manage, and that’s when she does it. Her hand slides down to the base of your cock and _squeezes_ , and your orgasm that you’ve been wanting for so long never comes, all of that release you worked so hard for, the heat that coiled up so tightly inside of you, crashes to a halt and vaporizes. You fling your eyes open – how long had they been closed? – and pull so hard against your bonds that the rope squeaks against itself and the headboard of the bedframe groans in resistance.

 _“Fuck!”_ you shout. Just when you thought she was beginning to lose control – she fucking knew it, she _planned_ this. “ _Fuck you_ –”

“It’s all for me, remember?” she pants, a mischievous smile curling around her lips. “It’s what I deserve.”

You hate this. You love this. The only thing holding you back from doing exactly what you said is a piece of well-tied fucking rope and – _shit._ You look at her in all of her glory, her honey-brown hair sticking to her face, sweat gleaming on her chest, and you make a choice.

“Give me the power to do it.”

Her eyes light up in surprise. “Give me my dragon.”

You lean up as far as you can and look her dead in the eye. “It’s yours.”

With all of this slow teasing you’ve never seen her move so fast. The rope is gone in a blink, and though you said you wanted to do all of those things to her – granted, you still do, and to be honest, you don’t think this is the last time you two will be doing this – you only have one thing in mind. You grab her, pull her underneath you, and press your whole body against her, then begin your work of marking up her neck with bites and bruises. She resumes grinding against you, digging her nails into your back.

“You can’t just grind against me and hope I’ll do something,” you tease, “you have to beg for it.”

Unlike you, she’s unashamed. “Please fuck me,” she whines, “teasing you made me so fucking wet. _Please,_ I want to feel your cock in me, I want you to come in me–”

Maybe she’s still in control after all, because you’re impatient now and hearing that just makes it so much worse, so you give in and slide yourself all the way in until you bottom out, and _fuck_ , the sound that comes out of her can’t be real. You pause for a moment, savoring the sensation of her warm, wet pussy around you, twitching and clamping. She’s impatient too, and she grinds aimlessly with you in her, searching for any sort of relief. This spurs you to start thrusting, and with each pump into her she gives a little moan, a little whimper – you could listen to that shit forever – but you don’t want to go slow, you want all of her _now_ , and so you start fucking her properly, rolling your hips and pressing deep into her each time you bottom out. She’s getting louder, now, and you bury your face into her neck and bite and don’t let go, rutting yourself against her blindly until you find your release –

“Come inside me, _fuck_ ,” she gasps, “Fill me up, _please_ –”

It undoes you. You fuck into her one more time and hold yourself there, and bite harder into her neck as you come inside her. She moans and shudders, grabs the back of your head too roughly and forces you against her – wraps her legs around you as she greedily pulls in every last bit of you.

You let yourself fall completely on top of her, and you two hang in that moment for a few seconds, basking in the afterglow. Her pussy still spasms around you sometimes, and it’s making you want to fuck her again. You think briefly as you come back to your senses that even though there isn’t any actual threat to pressure you into giving her a dragon, you gave her your word, and you’d still give her one in a heartbeat. Damn your king and his corrupt ways, anyway. Maybe, in some very backwards way, you are still serving your people by giving someone more righteous the means to cut him down.

“Would you allow me the selfish pleasure of torturing you again, General?” she asks lazily in your ear.

The sex isn’t a bad touch, either.

“Gladly, Your Majesty.”


End file.
